I'm Basically a Doctor
On male gynecologists and the continuing saga of my outie belly-button.
I’m basically a doctor.
Not sure when this realization hit and the phrase became prominent in my lexicon but its veracity came to light yesterday when I visited a real doctor. Allegedly. My primary healthcare physician.
Let’s start with the office. It’s in a typical medical building in Beverly Hills. Nice, upscale, valet parking. Nothing unusual here. But behind her unassuming door on the sixth floor is an unknown world, ruled by Zeus himself. His giant bust features eyes that follow you when you move.
The signage alerting the clientele of why the waits are so long was definitely not written by AI, which I appreciate, and the receptionist who used to treat me like garbage—I almost enjoyed how rude she was—suddenly has turned kind. I attribute this change in attitude to the likelihood that she watches my TikToks.
But it is in the exam room itself where the real magic unfolds as I greet my doctor
